Close
by Misguided Ghostling
Summary: Years after the collapse of the castle Ico is filled with a new desire. The yearning to be close.


He spent every day of his life wondering if it was possible to be _normal_. And when he met Yorda, he discovered that _normal_ was as foreign a concept to him as anything else. Whatever it was, he did not want it. The only thing he wanted, the only thing he could bring himself to focus on anymore, was the idea of getting close. Closer to her.

The longing tugged at his heart - the yearning to be close. But it was impossible. He knew that much. She was splendor, she was myth and moonlight coiled tightly into one spellbinding skin. As soft as satin and a dulcet as a cooing dove; there was wisdom he could not fathom in the deep wells of her eyes. Even her hands, the shape of her long fingers and the rise of her sharp knuckles – were perfection, and too pristine to be soiled by his touch. He wanted to cup her hands in his many times and just stroke his thumbs over the skin. His admiration, his own touch would have tainted her.

Yorda was beyond anything Ico had ever been allowed to gaze upon before.

As a boy, her otherworldly nature had alluded him but not anymore. Now he realized and now he looked at her with silent awe.

It was hardly a simple desire. If it had been a baser, lesser feeling he could have banished it, cast it out in disgust. Yet it wasn't that; it was the same need as a human desire to get closer to a deity. There were days when he felt like he was barely worthy to scratch at the ground she trod upon.

He tried to get closer without overstepping, without breaking a boundary that shimmered between them like a taut gossamer thread.

Language had always been their biggest hurdle. She spoke nothing of his language and had little interest in learning even all these years later as they lived side-by-side on their own little island. Her gaze was always flitting elsewhere, her tongue-twisting up the foreign, funny words and casting them down with a graceless mispronunciation. She could have learned his tongue, he was fully confident in that, but she had no real desire to – or perhaps she had no real _need,_ she was beyond such things and he was ready to accept that.

They had found other ways to communicate; it was not the everyday doldrums that frustrated him the most. What he really desired was to delve further into the pools of her eyes. He wanted to know what lay underneath, what sort of treasures he could harvest if he could only unspool her thoughts for just a moment. How beautiful and chimerical they must be. He wondered if she ever held onto them long, or if her thoughts were as her gaze – always flitting towards whatever was next of interest, sliding as steadily as the clouds over a gentle blue sky.

In their first days together he had spoken a great deal; to her, and to himself. Anything to sort of fill the silence, the void that yawned like a chasm between them. Now, in a way, he felt the silence brought them closer. He spoke less and less; necessity no longer demanded it, and he found the sound of his own voice to be broken and crude, shattering what was serene and pure. He found she smiled more after a long period of silence. And that, in turn, made him smile.

On this day the shadows were growing long as she played in them, weaving between the long stretches of darkness that were forming a canopy over the mossy path. He kept his eye on her, fearful that she should wander too far… but she stayed within his sights as if she knew how much he worried. Every now and then she would flit a look over her shoulder – one he considered playful, but he could never be sure. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were bright – but her expression, beyond that, was impenetrable.

She raised her hand and beckoned him, long wispy fingers like spider threads. He stood immediately as if pulled up by a string. He walked up towards her, his own handout, not sure what he was expecting. But the air was dizzying, intoxicating just by the sight and smell of her.

She smiled at him, then. Full and bright and beautiful. When he was close enough, she took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his and pulling him closer. His heart nearly stopped dead in his chest at her touch. He allowed himself to be pulled forward, finding all of a sudden that he wasn't able to look up. He kept his gaze fixed on her feet. Beautiful, bare and half-buried in moss.

She made a sound – it was like a coo or a chirrup. A sweet, bird-like sound as she started to walk deeper into the forest. He licked his lips – uncertain of where they were going. He kept his eyes on the shadows as they got taller and taller – he did not want to leave their camp too far behind. Any darker and it would be almost impossible to find again amongst these trees.

Ico took a deep breath. Here it was; this was all part of it, and he didn't want to fail. To get close he had to trust her. To even attain some part of what he desired…he would never think himself worthy of being her equal, or even worthy of demanding her attention. But to think that he could begin to understand her, to be a part of her world, to think the same way, to see the earth, the sky the same way…_that_ would truly be something. Gorgeous, mysterious, she was beyond him. But her hand was in his. And she was leading him, and he was trusting her enough to follow. That was the beginning, that was _something._ It was enough to make his heart race. He dared to step closer.

He stepped too close. A blunder and he hated himself for it. He felt his face flush and he started to stagger back – he nearly clipped her heel with his shoddily made boot, and he started to mutter an apology before realizing she wouldn't even understand what he was saying. Feeling stupid, feeling lost, he reached up with his free hand to dash what felt like quickly-forming tears away from his eyes. Stupid to cry, stupid to sob over anything so ridiculous. Only a tear or two squeezed out from the corner of his eye and he dashed them away quickly.

Cool, lithe fingers touched him underneath his chin. Ico looked up, startled, so wrapped up in his own stupidity that he was taken aback by the reminder she was there. He saw her gazing down at him, a wisp of concern etched into her brow as she swiped one thumb over his cheek, sweeping away the stubborn tear droplet clinging to his skin.

She smiled at him again. This time it was warm, kind. A full, human smile that floored him just to see. It was the sort of expression he would expect from a sister, or a lover, someone very close. Someone full of love and gentle, sweet concern.

He cast his gaze down again before bringing it back up – giving her his own sheepish grin. He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in an apology, hoping that and his red face could convey exactly how stupid he felt at his misstep.

She leaned over, and his breath caught in his throat. She brushed her lips over his forehead, and then his pulse was racing again.

Chaste. Fleeting. He was almost unsure whether it had happened at all. When she pulled away, her face was back to being impossible to read.

But the memory was there. He could still feel the trace on his skin. And now his face was red for an entirely different reason.

Closer and closer, every day.


End file.
